The current Conservative leadership contest is remarkable for many reasons, not least the fact that it's the first for 40 years that hasn't been dominated by Margaret Thatcher. Having left No 10 in 1990, she then contrived to bestow on her party John Major, William Hague and Iain Duncan Smith, none of whom can be thought of as tremendous successes.

Many commentators, such as John Sergeant, who wrote a book about it, believe that her interfering is one of the main reasons why they have been out of power so long. Whoever wins this autumn will, at least, be free of her and her legacy, free to drive the car without her carping from the back seat.

Now she has moved from being a baleful player on the stage into a dim and disappearing past. Michael Howard named her as a historical figure in his speech this week, alongside Wilberforce and Churchill. She didn't even come to the conference for her five-minute standing ovation. I suppose she might support Liam Fox, the most Eurosceptical candidate, but it's interesting that nobody has asked and few people care.

In fact she cuts a melancholy figure now. I know there are many Guardian readers who regard her with unmitigated loathing, and would happily wish any misfortune upon her, but I do feel considerable sorrow and sympathy. Her mind is gradually going, so she finds it difficult to socialise and to speak. She lost her husband after an immensely long and happy marriage. Her son narrowly escaped a long sentence in an appalling African jail. But what I suspect is the worst anxiety for anyone whose son gets divorced: over the last years of her life she will see much less, if anything, of her grandchildren, and I would not wish that upon anyone.

One curiosity of the contest is that the three leading candidates all swamped the conference with bottled water. There was David Davis bottled water, Ken Clarke bottled water, and a similar fluid named after David Cameron. These were handed out in the hopes, I suppose, that delegates would glug them in the stifling heat of the hall, so getting their man's name in front of the voters.

Or perhaps they were hoping to communicate subtle messages. "You'll find this Cameron water is spritzy and fresh, whereas the Clarke tastes rather older, with an undernote of tobacco ..." I tried them all, and they seemed the same to me. But it does seem an odd strategy. If they want to bribe their electorate, why not fine wines or malt whisky?

· One sign of the infantilisation of our national life is the growing tendency to anthropomorphise inanimate objects. Blackpool buses which are not picking up passengers say: "Sorry, I'm not in service", as if they were Clara the talking bus from Thomas the Tank Engine. On a Virgin train home I bought a cup of coffee, which had "I'm hot" written on the side. It's not a bloody teddy bear; why can't they just write: "Warning: contains hot liquid?"

· Every year I am struck by how many hotels in seaside towns offer a full residential package for Christmas, often for a fairly substantial sum. I read through the promotional leaflets, and they seem to exude an air of quiet desperation, of people without family, or escaping family, or for whom the effort of Christmas is just too much to contemplate. The text of these leaflets is supposed to imply fun and excitement, yet manages to convey a sort of festive gloom.

"December 24: arrive in time for welcome glass of sherry in residents' lounge. Dinner in our 'Balmoral' dining room, with choice of dishes, and glass of wine. Relax - and dance! - afterwards to the soft rock sounds of Feedback.

"Christmas Day: up in time for a full English breakfast from our bountiful buffet. In the morning, a visit from Santa and his sack. What will he bring you? Go to church or walk along the prom, but remember to be back in time for carols round the tree and a glass of sparkling wine. Full Christmas dinner of roast Norfolk turkey - with all the trimmings, or vegetarian option.

"In the evening, cold supper, and a chance to enjoy the piano stylings of Roger Harbinson. On Boxing Day morning, it's goodbye, and a Happy New Year!"

Some of them go on for as long as three or four days. I would lose the will to live long before Christmas morning.

· "The question of whether intellect and emotion can be separately evaluated is one that has recently occupied much of my time and taxed me to my limits."

This is a quote from a personal statement written by the son of a friend of mine as part of his attempt to get into a good university. I don't want to be rude, and I know how hard they are trying, but people write these at the age of 18 or so, just when they are stretching their mental powers and want to appear prematurely adult.

Another, older one described taking part in a protest against the Newbury by-pass. "My chief memory is of sitting in a tree reading Minima Moralia." This young man went on, "When I was younger, I regarded myself as an anarcho-syndicalist. But then, who didn't?"

I don't expect you to shop your own offspring, but if any teachers or university admissions tutors have contributions to chip in, I'd be very grateful.

· I didn't know Ronnie Barker, but I did once see him at a BBC party a few years ago. He spent the whole time deep in conversation with Ronnie Corbett. The old showbiz cliche is that double acts hate each other, but these two were taking such pleasure in each other's company that a glow spread around the room.

· Horrible to learn that George Bush gets messages from God. Just what we need in the world: one more powerful man who knows precisely what is in God's mind. So to cheer you up, here's a Dubya joke that Andy Hamilton told me:

He is in the Oval Office getting the daily sit-rep on Iraq. Rumsfeld says: "I have to tell you, Mr President, that yesterday three Brazilian soldiers were killed."

To his surprise Bush groans and buries his head in his hands, saying over and over, "That is just terrible, terrible, news.